


Thus From My Lips

by minkowski



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Theatre, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6189661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkowski/pseuds/minkowski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then move not while my prayer's effect I take./Thus from my lips by thine my sin is purged."</p><p>High School AU. Les Amis put on a very low-budget production of Romeo and Juliet. Courfeyrac takes an interest in Marius Pontmercy, props manager who isn't entirely sure how he ended up doing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The cast list had been posted midway through Monday morning, and Courfeyrac was fairly certain he’d never been happier.

“Knew it,” said Enjolras, cuffing his shoulder playfully. “You were the _only_ option.”

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna be stage manager this year,” said Courfeyrac, feeling as though the air around him had been replaced with glitter. “You’ve basically been running stage crew for the past three years anyway.”

“Right. Jesus.” Enjolras ducked out of the crowd forming around the cast list and took a deep breath. “Senior year.”

“Jesus.” Courfeyrac took a final glance at the list to read it one more time-- _COURFEYRAC - ROMEO MONTAGUE--_ and stepped away with Enjolras. “It’s got to be good this year.”

Enjolras grinned at him. “It’s _going_ to be good. What, you don’t trust me?”

“Please, like you’re the one carrying an entire play.”

“Might as well be.”

Courfeyrac stumbled away from the crowd, joking with Enjolras, knowing that he could never feel as good as he did in this moment.

* * *

 

Thirty minutes into the first rehearsal, it was becoming a very real possibility that Enjolras might hurt somebody.

“This is typical,” spat Enjolras, pacing across the uneven floorboards of Musain High School’s stage. “Mabeuf just--isn’t going to show up. Fine.”

“Is he even at this school anymore?” asked Jehan from their place on the floor. A general murmur of uncertainty filled the stage. Mabeuf had barely been present during the winter play, giving only vague stage directions and reminding them to stand on the tape lines. There had been rumors that he had moved away.

“Okay. Okay.” Courfeyrac held out his hands. “Look, Enjolras, why don’t you just run the rehearsal today? It’s just going to be some team-building exercises or something, right?”

“Right.” Enjolras took a deep breath, forcing a smile, and ran a hand through his tangled blond hair. “We’ll just do some improv games till Mabeuf shows up. _If_ Mabeuf shows up. Whatever.” Hair smoothed, hands on his hips, he looked less like he could murder the school’s failing theatre system. “We can, uh, divide into groups or something? Based on characters?”

There was some general movement across the dimly lit stage. The chorus gathered at one edge, and Courfeyrac found himself surrounded by the other members of the cast. The Juliet for this year--some girl named Cosette, who Courfeyrac barely knew, but who seemed nice enough--was joking with Jehan. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta--Mercutio, Benvolio, and Lady Capulet, respectively--had somehow managed to avoid injuring themselves or others yet, which was good. Frowning, Courfeyrac signaled to Enjolras.

“Where’s stage crew?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Oh--they’re backstage. Turns out we got a bunch of new people over winter break, and everyone’s pretty psyched. Want to go get them? I think I'm going to try to get everyone to do some improv games. You know, get in the spirit."

Courfeyrac smirked. “You know how much Éponine loves her improv games.” Grinning, he headed backstage.

“Hey, we’ve got a couple of new members this year, too!” called Enjolras. “Be sure to, you know, make them feel welcome and everything.

Courfeyrac half-turned in the murky darkness. “What--”

There was a startled “Oh!” Before Courfeyrac felt his head collide with something bony. Two bodies tumbled to the floor. Courfeyrac was vaguely aware of something viscous dripping onto his shirt.

A chastised voice rang out from above Courfeyrac. “Oh my gosh, I-I’m so sorry, I d-didn’t mean to--to--”

Head ringing, Courfeyrac rubbed some paint from his eyebrow and blinked towards the source of the voice. He found  a tall, gangly boy about his age standing above him, eyes wide.

“I am so sorry,” repeated the boy, cheeks flushed crimson. “I can, uh--are there paper towels or something? I am so sorry, I should have been looking, uh…”

“What? No, it’s okay, I wasn’t looking where I was going either.” Courfeyrac glanced around and found a paint can lying on the ground, oozing red paint. That explained the wetness on his shirt, at least. “Enjolras is probably gonna kill me about the paint, but it’s okay.”

The boy nodded grimly, looking as though he understood the severity of the situation. “We can probably salvage some of the paint? I mean, I can scrape some back into the can, or something.” He knelt down, and, without hesitation, stuck his large, flat palm into the paint, doing his best to push it back into the can.

Not feeling especially interested in sticking his hand in bright red paint, but feeling that it would be rude not to join the other boy, Courfeyrac knelt down and followed suit. He was halfway covered in the thick, red liquid anyway--getting up to his elbows in it couldn’t hurt.

“I’m Courfeyrac,” he said after a few minutes of silence.

The other boy raised an eyebrow, smiling crookedly. “That’s not a name you hear often.” Then, blushing, he hastily added. “Sorry. You probably get that a lot.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “No, it’s fine. It’s my last name, actually. Sort of a weird Musain High theatre thing? I don’t know--Enjolras started it.”

“Ah.” The other boy nodded, brushing his black hair out of his eyes with the crook of his elbow. “I’m Marius. Marius Pontmercy.”

“Marius.” Courfeyrac took a moment to consider the name--also unusual, but he decided against commenting on it. “Are you knew this year? I don’t recognize you.”

Marius took on a half-knowing, half-embarrassed smile. “No, I’ve been here since freshman year. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, actually.”

“Really? I swear, I’ve never seen you.” Courfeyrac leaned in, squinting.

Marius laughed, ducking his head. “Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m forgettable.”

“What?” Courfeyrac blushed, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“No, it’s fine! Whatever, you know?” Marius stood up, doing his best to shake the paint from his arms. “I think that’s the best we can do.”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac wiped some paint on his now-red T-shirt, giving up entirely on staying clean. “We should probably get a mop or something.”

“Yeah.” Marius hesitated. “I, uh, don’t know where the supply closet is. I’m new to stage crew this year."

“C’mon, I can show you.” Courfeyrac strode to the darker corners of the backstage area, Marius following a few steps behind. “What brings you to stage crew this year, Marius?”

“Uh...my granddad wanted me to participate in more extracurriculars?" Marius half-laughed before seeing that Courfeyrac was genuinely waiting for the answer. “I dunno, really. Last semester, I saw the play--”

“ _The Merchant of Venice!_ It was good, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, totally, and I, uh, sort of thought that I might have fun doing it? I don’t really know, though. Also, I’m pretty sure I just spilled half the supplies, so I'm sure everyone's gonna love me now.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Don’t worry about it.” He tossed Marius a mop and grabbed a bucket for himself. “So, no previous experience in the arts?”

“None."

"Acting?"

Marius snorted. "Definitely not."

The two cleaned in silence for a few minutes. Courfeyrac watched Marius’ way with the mop with slight amusement. He treated it more like an uncomfortable dance partner than anything else, wrestling with the unusually tall mop. Still, there was something gentle about his movements, something fierce, as though this was the most important thing he’d ever done.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “By the way--”

A flash of red burst into Courfeyrac’s line of vision. Enjolras, looking slightly frazzled, stood in the wings, breathing heavily.

“Courfeyrac? There you are. So the improv things are kind of falling apart because somebody sort of tripped over the edge of the stage--look, not to name names, but it was definitely Bossuet--and now he has a bloody nose and it’s super gross and then I realized that you weren’t there, so I started looking around backstage, and Éponine said she didn’t see you, but she was up in the lights booth, so I--”

Enjolras broke off, surveying the scene. There was a moment of silence. When he finally spoke, it was in a more subdued tone.

“This is going to be an absolute fucking mess.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Three dollars."

Courfeyrac, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the stage, glanced up from his script. "What?"

Enjolras hovered a few inches from his ear, eyebrows twisted into a pained expression. "Three dollars," he hissed. "That's our budget. We've got three dollars."

Courfeyrac marked the script with his thumb and swiveled towards his friend. "That's an exaggeration."

"Yeah. Not a big one, though." Enjolras sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Plus, we spilled that can of paint a couple of days ago, so we're running way too low on red paint, and--" He shook his head. "Again: _absolute fucking mess."_

Courfeyrac placed a hand on the stage manager's arm and shook him roughly. "Come on, stage manager. I believe in you."

"Right. Right." Enjolras took a deep breath and stumbled away, muttering something about the opening scene. Courfeyrac watched him depart, frowning slightly.

"Budget of three dollars?"

Courfeyrac jumped before noticing a familiar form standing above him. "Oh. Yeah. Hi, Marius. Enjolras exaggerates. He's just stressed out 'cause we don't have an actual director, so now he's the stage-manager-slash-director."

"Yikes."

Courfeyrac opened his mouth, about to say something about how there was still about half an hour before rehearsal began, but Marius broke in, speaking faster than usual. "Uh, so I'm working props now, sort of--"

"Oh, yeah, Combeferre told me. How's that going?"

"Fine. Oh, but, uh, there's this thing that you need another person to hold in place while you hammer it, and a bunch of props people are busy and aren't here yet, and I was wondering if you could--"

"Hold it in place? Sure." Courfeyrac pushed himself off of the stage and stumbled towards the backstage area, still clutching his script. "Whoa." The darkened room was clustered with furniture--some half-broken, some freshly refurbished--without any system of organization.

Marius grinned, blushing in the darkness. "Does it look okay?"

"Looks great." Courfeyrac gazed around the prop room, nodding to himself. "What're you working on right now?"

"Juliet's bedroom. There's this crooked piece of wood on her dresser…"

Courfeyrac knelt down and pressed down the piece of wood so that it lay flat. Marius began to hammer methodically in that way of his.

"So you're, like...the propmaster now?" Courfeyrac said above the hammering.

Marius blushed. "Me? Oh, no. God. Uh, Feuilly's working props with me--he's responsible for, like all the good stuff that's been built--and Grantaire, this senior who I think got held back a couple of years, is doing all the painting. He's killing it. I'm just doing, like, basic stuff that they can't do, you know, when Feuilly's working or when Grantaire just doesn't show up."

"Nice." Courfeyrac let Marius hammer in silence for a few minutes before speaking up again, a grin creeping across his face. "Okay, since I let you borrow me, you have to do me a favor now."

Marius paused in his hammering, looking slightly chastened. "Oh."

"Nothing bad. Mind running over some lines with me? I haven't actually practiced all week."

Marius ducked his head, halfway laughing. "I'm not going to be good."

"Neither have I. Again: I haven't practiced all week."

"No, you don't understand--"

"You're not gonna get _graded_ , Pontmercy--"

"I know, it's just--"

"Come on. It's not the final performance."

Marius opened his mouth, then shrugged, eyes on the ground. "Yeah. Sure."

Courfeyrac grinned. "Okay. Sick. So, you're Juliet--"

"Oh my God."

"Chill. So, you're Juliet, and we just did the whole balcony scene, okay? Start at 'Romeo'."

Marius swallowed, Adam's apple bulging. "Okay. Um." He sighed. _"Romeo!"_

_"My dear?"_ Courfeyrac grinned. The tips of Marius' ears burned red.

_"At what o'clock t-tomorrow shall I send to thee?"_

_"At the hour of nine."_ Courfeyrac sighed, shoving Marius' shoulder. "Wow. I literally just fell out of love with Juliet. You are the worst Juliet on the planet."

Marius cringed, forcing a laugh. "Look, I told you I was going to be bad!"

"Yeah, but I didn't know _how_ bad. Give me a warning next time."

"Sorry." Marius picked up the hammer and began twisting it in his hands, looking as though he wanted to hit something. Every inch of his body seemed to be blushing.

Courfeyrac hesitated, unsure what he had done. "You okay, Pontmercy?"

Marius shrugged. "Sure. I mean, I just don't really like acting."

"Picked one hell of an extracurricular."

Marius looked like he might hit Courfeyrac with the hammer he wielded, but a smile twisted his face now. "That's why I'm doing stage crew, idiot. I don't--I don't want to have to do things in front of other people."

"You're just in front of me."

"Still."

Courfeyrac felt as though he had done something wrong, but couldn't quite place what. It was as though he wasn't quite standing on solid earth anymore. "So, uh, what _do_ you like doing?"

Marius shrugged, ducking his head. "I like languages."

"Languages?"

"Yeah. I mean, I don't really know." Marius lifted a shoulder, brushing his dark hair away from his forehead. "I want to work as a translator someday. You know, translating documents and maybe working with kids learning a new language. I mean, whatever, right?"

"Huh." Courfeyrac studied Marius out of the corner of his eye, bending his script back and forth between his hands. "What languages?"

"I'm taking French and German right now."

"Jesus. Really?"

_"Oui."_ Marius paused. "That means 'yes' in French."

Courfeyrac elbowed hi,. "I know what _oui_ means, Marius. I'm not an idiot."

Marius laughed, ducking his head. "Okay, look--"

"Courfeyrac?" Enjolras poked his head out from behind the wall, looking slightly less frazzled than he had ten minutes ago. "We're starting rehearsal. We want to run through the costume ball scene."

"Right. Jesus, it's time." Courfeyrac ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the curls. "Is the set okay? Do you need any more help, or--"

"No, I'll be fine. Thanks. Sorry I couldn't be more of a help, but, uh, you sound great." Marius gave an uncomfortable double thumbs-up, which looked more anxious than supportive. "You'll be good!"

Enjolras tugged Courfeyrac towards the stage, forehead knitted. "Okay," he muttered to himself. Then, to Courfeyrac: "I'm thinking you two could, you know, like, be on opposite sides of the stage? And Combeferre was saying stuff about the lighting--you know, obviously we're not going to do any of the real tech stuff today, but, like, you're both going to be lit up really pale pink, and...Jesus, I don't know." He jerked his head towards Cosette, who appeared to be miming her own death scene, much to the delight of Jehan. "Stand opposite her. Stage left." Taking a deep breath, he strode out to the middle of the stage, clapping his hands. "Okay! So, Romeo?"

Courfeyrac glanced down at his script, startled. "Oh! Okay." He cleared his throat. _"If I profane with my unworthiest hand--"_

"Shit. Forgot about stage directions." Enjolras glanced down at his own script, already covered in pencil. "Why doesn't Shakespeare have any directions?"

Grantaire appeared from backstage, peering over Enjolras' shoulder. "Just have them walk towards each other slowly. It's not that hard, you know."

Enjolras' face flushed red as he shook her hand from his shoulder. "Maybe you should be the stage manager, if you know so much."

"Maybe."

Enjolras' face twisted further into a frown while the cast watched in amusement. "Shouldn't you be backstage somewhere?"

Now Éponine was the one appearing, looking about as irritated as everyone else onstage. "Can't. Half our shit is broken, and Feuilly's not gonna be able to repair the soundboard til next week." Éponine nodded towards Cosette. "Hey. You new?"

Courfeyrac broke in, watching Enjolras' face darken one shade. "Uh, okay, so--so, yeah, we'll just walk across the stage? Slowly?" He stumbled towards Cosette, feeling that he was moving both too fast and too slow. _"If I profane with my unworthiest hand/This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:/My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand/To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."_

"Ooh." Joly.

Cosette, looking slightly disoriented, glanced back at Éponine before letting her eyes flutter to her script. _"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,/Which mannerly devotion shows in this;/For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,/And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."_

Courfeyrac felt something open between his ribcage, like sunlight spilling from his bone marrow. God, this was it, _this_ was why he was doing this. To become somebody else, to let his mortal body transcend beyond homework and failure and angry stage managers, to be somebody else. The next lines came easily, as though they were his own words. _"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?"_

_"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."_

There was a smattering of whispers and giggles, mostly from Joly and Bossuet, followed by Enjolras snapping that _their comments were not in the script, and therefore there was_ no reason _to interject every five seconds like they were four years old._

_"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;/They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."_

_"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake."_

Out of the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac saw Marius glancing out from behind the curtains, eyes glued to the scene. Feeling his cheeks flush, Courfeyrac glanced down at his script. "Uh, _th-then move not, while my prayer's effect I take."_

Musichetta strode across the stage and placed a hand roughly on Cosette's shoulder, grinning. _"Madam, your mother craves a word with you."_

"I had another line," interjected Courfeyrac, torn out of his daze.

"We both had, like, eight more lines." Cosette glanced down at her script, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "We still have to kiss, which is, like, a pretty pivotal part of the greatest love story of all time."

Éponine opened her mouth, as if to debate the validity of Cosette's claim, but Enjolras held up a hand, defeat etched into his face. "Maybe this isn't the best scene. Could we run through some stuff with the chorus?"

* * *

 

Courfeyrac stumbled offstage, feeling something twist in the pit of his stomach. A hand clasped on his shoulder. He twisted around and found Combeferre, looking about how he felt. "Hey," said Courfeyrac breathlessly.

"Hey. That was kind of a trainwreck."

"Hey. Yeah."

"Yeah."

There was a brief silence--not uncomfortable, just the way of a conversation with Combeferre. Courfeyrac considered lighting himself on fire.

"Hey, listen, speaking of trainwrecks--" Combeferre paused, glancing around guiltily and lowering his voice. "Stage crew this year? It's kind of a mess, too."

Courfeyrac took this in. "Jesus. What's going on?"

Combeferre laughed shortly, expressionless. He ticked his words off on his fingers, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Bahorel's supposed to be our costume guy, but he didn't tell us that he was going to play Tybalt, too, so now we have to figure out a backup costume guy. The lights board somehow got fucked up over the span of two months with no theatre going on, so there's that. Oh, so's the soundboard. Feuilly can't come for half the rehearsals because he's working. Grantaire just sort of left halfway through to go heckle Enjolras--you saw that, right? That was a mess, right? Éponine's pissed about the soundboard, so she's not really doing work as much as complaining. Oh, and the new guy's kind of a trainwreck without any help."

Courfeyrac grimaced. "Jesus," he repeated.

Lifting one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, Combeferre half-laughed. "Yeah. But, I mean, what're you gonna do?"

"Right. What are you gonna..." The sentence didn't seem worth finishing, and Courfeyrac stumbled away. He found his shoes by the edge of the stage and began to double-knot them, considering how much homework he had to do.

"Hey."

Courfeyrac twisted around at the familiar voice. "Oh! Hey, Marius." He took in Marius' posture--shoulders hunched, in a sort of perpetual cringe. "Are things..."

"I mean, you know. It's the first day. Things can't be expected to go perfectly, right?" He pulled his shoulders up to his ears in a shrug, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Do you, uh, want to go outside?"

Courfeyrac straightened up, right shoe still untied. "Yeah, sure." He nodded to Enjolras on the way out. If Enjolras noticed, he didn't let on. "So...stage crew?"

"Stage crew. Right." Marius shook his head ruefully. "Éponine's pretty intense, right?"

Courfeyrac let out a bark of laughter. "What happened today?"

"Soundboard's broken, so she complained about that for about ten minutes before going onstage to heckle Enjolras." He ducked his chin into his chest, a guilty smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That was pretty funny, actually."

"It was, wasn't it?" Courfeyrac smiled before remembering the rest of the rehearsal.

As though reading his mind, Marius spoke. "So, uh, how did the rest of rehearsal go?"

Courfeyrac closed his eyes briefly, recalling the rehearsal. Joly and Bossuet as Mercutio and Benvolio fake sword-fighting, nearly killing each other in the process. Bahorel as Tybalt nearly killing Cosette with an exuberant high-five. Enjolras as a disgruntled stage manager nearly killing Grantaire after one Statler-and-Waldorf-esque comment too many. Enjolras nearly killing Courfeyrac after he _may_ have suggested that the balcony scene was laughable and they should cut it out to save time. Courfeyrac nearly killing Enjolras after he may have suggested that they should just cut out the character of Romeo to save time...

"Trainwreck," Courfeyrac said, recalling Combeferre's words.

Marius nodded solemnly. "Yikes."

Courfeyrac exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud the pale March dusk. There was a silence for a few more moments before Marius spoke again.

"I didn't get much time to watch, but, uh, I saw your scene, and--and it was good. You know. The one where you and Juliet meet."

Courfeyrac snorted, recalling the elation he had felt. It seemed stupid now, like a dream that had only made sense when he slept. "That was the worst thing I've ever done."

Marius' expression dipped in the dim light. "Really? I thought it was good." His tone was flat.

Courfeyrac shrugged, kicking at the wet grass. "Yeah, well, thanks, I guess. God, we've got so much work to do. I mean, this was supposed to be the best thing we've ever done--I mean, Christ, senior year..." He shook his head. "Whatever, you know?"

Marius nodded, gazing at his loafers. Courfeyrac considered the fact that a seventeen-year-old was wearing loafers. "Well, let me know if you, uh, need help again. You know. Whenever. I don't know how much I'll be able to help, but, you know..."

"Yeah. I mean..." Courfeyrac gazed at the horizon, watching the first few stars appear over the trees. "I had fun today. Maybe not at rehearsal, but backstage, just talking and stuff."

Marius nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels. "I didn't mind doing it as much as I normally do."

Courfeyrac punched Marius on his upper arm, grinning. "Wow. That's quite the endorsement. Running lines with Courfeyrac: 'Not as terrible as it could have possibly been.'"

"That's not what I meant!" Marius did that guilty, crooked smile of his again, rubbing his arm. "I had fun, too."

"Yeah. Look, just text me sometime. Here--" Courfeyrac took a pen from his backpack, and, uncapping it with his teeth, scribbled his number on Marius' arm. "Text me tonight. Or whenever."

"I--yeah, definitely." As Marius glanced down at the number, he caught a glimpse of his watch. "Oh! Oh, God, it's late. My grandfather's expecting me, like--ten minutes ago." He rubbed his left eye, looking suddenly tired. "Uh, see you tomorrow.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac's parents were none too pleased with his late arrival.

"It's irresponsible," said his mother, slamming the salad bowl onto the table. Courfeyrac cringed, feeling as though he was five years old and had been sent to the punishment chair.

Courfeyrac's father broke in, giving his son that traditional steely gaze. "I don't mind that you're doing theatre--"

"Yes, you do. God." Courfeyrac was well aware that the more he acted like a petulant toddler, the worse his punishment would be, but this was a fate he was willing to accept.

His father cleared his throat and started over, enunciating his words more clearly. "I don't mind that you're doing theatre, but to show up late for dinner every day, to never tell us that you're going to be late--"

"Irresponsible," his mother repeated, shaking her head.

"Childish," his father broke in, copying her motions exactly.

Courfeyrac felt something sick, black, tar-thick growing in the pit of his stomach. His parents loved him in their own way; he knew that. And, in his own way, almost in theory, he loved them. But they would do _this_ \--their uncomfortable way of always knowing what the other was saying, their way of building off of one another's words, their way of never showing physical affection unless it was necessary to keep up appearances--it made his skin crawl.

"And that's to say nothing of your grades," his father said, locking his eyes onto those of his son.

"Your statistics grade is down eight points since last quarter," added his mother.

Courfeyrac did his best not to scream. "You're checking my grades now? I'm not in middle school anymore, you guys."

His father raised an eyebrow. "Then I suggest you start acting like it, young man."

"The thing is, last semester's grade was _this_ passable."

"A B is a passing grade, _Mother_ ," Courfeyrac muttered into his plate.

Courfeyrac's father frowned, thick eyebrows pulling in. "A low B."

"Barely a B at all," continued his mother.

"We understand that perhaps Statistics isn't your strongest suit--"

"--But it would be different if you were excelling in all your other classes, and Statistics was the exception to the rule."

"Your grades are virtually the same in all your classes."

"Some are barely passing even by the school's standards."

"We respect your decision to involve yourself in extracurricular activities--"

"Colleges appreciate that."

"But it's simply not feasible to expect that you'll go on to do, well, anything with grades like these." His father leaned back in his seat, looking as though the argument was over. "I didn't become a lawyer by barely scraping by in high school."

And here it was. Feeling his blood begin to curdle, Courfeyrac gazed down at his plate. He bit his tongue until his mouth tasted salty and hot, clenching his fist, legs shaking. This was a typical routine for them, too--to bring up their successful careers as lawyers, to mention how they lived on the _right_ side of town, but they hadn't gotten there by slacking and playing Romeo in a mediocre high school production of _Romeo and Juliet_ , no, sir. They worked hard to keep their son safe on the _right_ side of town.

"Are you listening at all?" His mother's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.

He looked up, doing his best to keep his eyes free of fire. "I'm listening."

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "I think you're lying. And that's the thing that upsets me the most. This is why you're failing statistics."

Unable to control himself, Courfeyrac snorted. "Yeah, because that's relevant."

His father looked up. "Excuse me?"

Regretting starting this, but unable to stop now, he ventured on. "My grades have something to do with how I can't listen? Correlation does not equal causation. Learned that from Statistics. From _listening_ in Statistics."

His father put down his fork--not hard enough to scratch the perfect table in the perfect house on the right side of town, but hard enough to echo through the dining room. "I think that's quite enough."

There was no point in trying to control himself now. "Can you just stop talking about my grades and how you're better than me for five seconds? It's ridiculous."

His father's neck glowed red. "Go--"

"Go to my room. Right."

The worst part about being the only child in such an unnecessarily large house, Courfeyrac decided, was the quiet. He had been to Éponine's house before, and even when her parents came home and started fighting, it was never completely silent, not with four kids under ten running around. But when he walked up the stairs, the house was silent, just like it always was.

_Stupid_ , he thought to himself, lying back on his too-big bed in his too-big room in his too-big house. God, his parents were right--he was acting like he was five years younger.

His phone buzzed. Glancing down through white-hot tears, he caught a blurry glimpse of his screen. A text from an unknown number, reading:

_Just checking to see if this is the right number?? You wrote it on my arm and your handwriting is very messy and also I think I smudged some of it, so I am just checking to see if this is you. If not, I am very sorry. - Marius Pontmercy :-)_

Snorting, Courfeyrac picked up his phone. _so do u sign all ur texts?_

A new text popped up almost immediately. _My granddad set up my phone and gave me a text signature. I can't figure out how to get rid of it. - Marius Pontmercy :-)_

_this sentence got more embarrassing as it went along_

_:-( - Marius Pontmercy :-)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marius is learning french because they're in america and in the book he was learning english do u ge t it
> 
> also marius is an old man


	3. Chapter 3

"Where's your friend?"

Courfeyrac nearly hit his head on the slanted ceiling as he glanced up, still sweating from rehearsal. Éponine was perched in the rafters, looking somewhat like a hawk ready to claim its prey. "Combeferre? He's probably working lights or something."

"No, I know where Ferre is. I mean the new props guy."

"Marius? I dunno. He's been absent for the past few days, I guess." He didn't elaborate, but he did feel like he should mention that Marius hadn't been answering his texts, either. It could be dismissed as typical spaciness, but still. "Why?"

"We're falling behind. I mean, we all make fun of him or whatever, and it's not like he's Feuilly, but Jesus, he kind of gets a lot of work done. Plus, I was talking to Juliet. She was wondering about him." She scowled at her shoes. "What do you know about Juliet?" 

Courfeyrac half-shrugged, lifting his backpack over his right shoulder. "Juliet? I mean, she's kind of a flat character, right? Did you fail sophomore English?"

Éponine scowled. "That was my second-best class. Anyway, that's not what I'm talking about. I mean Juliet the  _ person _ . You know. Colette, right?"

"Cosette. Yeah, I know her. I mean, we're co-stars, so--"

"What's her deal?" Éponine hopped down from the rafters, tracing a circle on the floor with the toe of her Converse. "She seems okay."

"I mean, yeah, she's nice. She's new this year, so I don't know much about her. She sings a lot, and she's got a nice voice."

"I know." Éponine frowned, looking only half-serious. "You're really not helping me here."

"What do you need help--" Courfeyrac's eyes widened. "Do you  _ like  _ her?" he said, feeling like a first-grader.

"What?  _ No _ !" Éponine's easy blush gave her away, though she tried to turn away. "Shut up. Look, I'll just go talk to her myself." 

Courfeyrac did his best not to smirk, but self-control never was one of his strong suits. "You do that." 

Éponine opened her mouth as if to say something, but Courfeyrac was distracted by somebody lurking in the shadows. "Wait, I think--hey! Marius!"

The shadowy figure who Courfeyrac had spotted took a few seconds before turning around. It waved weakly before stepping into the light.

"It is you! Jesus, where have you been? I thought you quit for a few days, but Bossuet said you weren't in German, either. What's up?"

Marius looked slightly overwhelmed. "Uh, you know. I've been sick."

Éponine appeared, hands on her hips, looking grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, well, set crew's been picking up the slack. How do you expect us to get anything done without you to sift through fifty years of shitty props?"

Marius cringed. "Sorry."

A new figure appeared behind Éponine, grinning, biting into a green apple. Feuilly. "Damn, Marius, I've only shown up to, like, two rehearsals this week, and I've still managed to get more shit done than you."

Before Marius could stutter out a fresh apology, Grantaire sauntered up behind Feuilly. "Are we trashing Marius for not showing up at all this week? 'Cause I've been picking up so much fuckin' slack. I'm pretty sure this is the hardest I've ever worked."

Éponine punched him in the shoulder. "You've painted, like, a quarter of a backdrop."

Grantaire held up his hands in defeat, grinning. "I...have not had a very hard life."

Feuilly, Éponine, and Grantaire all glanced at Marius, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to punch Grantaire on the shoulder or tell Feuilly that showing up to rehearsal twice a week wasn't exactly stellar work, but he stayed silent, looking as though he had been left out of some inside joke. As the seconds ticked by, Courfeyrac felt his skin grow sticky with embarrassment.

"All right, well, I'm heading out," said Feuilly, shifting his backpack from shoulder to shoulder. "Stage crew? Want to get slushies or something?"

Éponine raised a fist in the air. "I have consumed nowhere near enough food dye lately."

"Yeah. I read that that blue raspberry stuff is made with, like, beavers' fingernails, or whatever shit beavers have. Claws? I dunno. So I'm in, 'cause fuck beavers." Grantaire glanced at Marius. "Slacker? You coming?"

Marius laughed, but the laugh was stuck in his throat. "Actually, I think I'm okay. Thanks, though. Sorry."

Courfeyrac watched the stage crew retreat before turning to Marius. "You know they were joking, right?"

"What?"

"They were  _ joking _ , Marius. Nobody's, like, actually mad at you."

Marius rubbed his eye, halfway smiling now. "Oh. Yeah, I get it. Sorry."

"Don't apologize." Courfeyrac gazed at him, tilting his head. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry, I'm just super out of it today. I can't remember a single thing that happened in my classes today. I mean, I didn't even remember that we had practice after school today until, like, ten minutes ago. I biked over here, but..." He lifted a shoulder in half a shrug. "Is rehearsal completely over?"

"I guess so." Courfeyrac watched the final few members of the chorus slip out of the back door. "I should probably lock up the place soon."

Marius ran a hand through his hair. "Hey, maybe--I mean, if it's okay with you--I could take the keys? I feel like I should stay late today. You know, help with props and stuff, since I've been absent."

Courfeyrac hesitated. "You don't need to do that. I've heard Feuilly saying they need to work on the balcony scene, though, if that's okay..."

Marius shook his head, putting his hands in his pockets. "Nah, I don't mind. I kind of miss it, if that makes sense?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Plus, my grandfather's not expecting me back till late."

Courfeyrac thought of his own parents, sitting at the dinner table, waiting to discuss his recent Statistics homework. "You know, maybe I'll stay, too," he said, copying Marius' almost-relaxed pose. "Want to help me run my lines?"

Marius raised an eyebrow, ducking his chin into his chest as he laughed. "Are you sure  _ you  _ want that?"

"'Course. C'mon, I'll help you paint sets or something."

Courfeyrac followed Marius backstage, watching him as they walked. Marius swayed as he walked, as though a breeze could push him over, but he didn't look off-balance, even when his feet stumbled on nothing, even when he nearly hit his head on the slow ceilings. "We're trying to use these scrap pieces of wood from the 90s to work as the walls," he called back to Courfeyrac, head twisted around. "Grantaire said he outlined some bricks, so all we really need to do is paint them."

"Nice." Courfeyrac crouched down next to an aging bucket of gray paint and tossed his script at Marius. "Could you turn to page thirty-two?"

Marius scanned the page. "Am I Juliet?"

Courfeyrac grinned to himself, stirring the paint with his brush.  _ "I take thee at thy word:/Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;/Henceforth I never will be Romeo." _

Marius glanced up from the script. "Did you know that 'wherefore' actually means 'why'? So when Juliet says 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' she means 'why'?"

"Great fact, Marius. We're past that."

Marius cleared his throat.  _ "What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night/So stumblest on my counsel?" _

_ "By a name/I know not...I know not how... _ fuck." Courfeyrac paused, staring at the ceiling. "What's my line?"

_ "I know not how to tell thee--" _

_ "I know not how to tell thee who I am! _ Okay, okay, so I have that part down, it's just the rest of the scene. Uh, so there's some more stuff, and then..." Courfeyrac cleared his throat, glancing up at Marius.  _ "With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls;/For stony limits cannot hold love out,/And what love can do that dares love attempt;/Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me." _

Marius, catching Courfeyrac's eye, quickly glanced back down at the script. "Uh, therefore...I, uh..." His face was pink in the dim afternoon light. "I lost my place."

"Whatever. That's the part that trips me up the most, anyway." Courfeyrac rolled to a standing position and took his script from Marius, leafing through the pages. "It's kind of a dumb scene."

Marius' eyes didn't leave his work on the wall. "I think it's pretty. Some of it, anyway. The whole  _ 'Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face' _ bit--that's good, I think."

"I guess so." Courfeyrac flipped to the monologue, only half-reading it. "You read this before, Pontmercy? That's a pretty specific line to remember."

Marius blushed. "Skimmed it. I just remember things well, is all. That's why I'm taking two languages, you know? If I can get an easy A in two classes, why not?"

"Right." Courfeyrac flipped to his own monologue, a black pit opening in the bottom of his stomach. "I wish I could remember things like that. Like, I got the lead in the play just because I memorized my audition monologue for  _ months _ . I'm just--I dunno, not good at that sort of thing."

Marius smiled so quickly Courfeyrac wasn't sure if he had seen it. "Picked one hell of an extracurricular." Then, after a brief moment of hesitation: "Sorry. That was mean. You're a good actor."

Courfeyrac flicked some paint at Marius. The grey specks blended in with his freckles. "I know, asshole." After a moment of consideration, he spoke again, more serious this time. "It's, like, fine with my acting and stuff, because I actually  _ care _ , but when I have to study for a test or something? It sucks."

"Mm." Marius rubbed at the paint with the back of his hand, only succeeding in furthering the damage.

"My parents--God, my parents hate it." Courfeyrac ran a hand through his curls, sighing. "I'm supposed to be as good as them, but I'm just...not. I don't get it, you know? I'm not like Joly, with his free ride to med school just because he's never got a grade lower than an A. I can't learn languages in five seconds. It's just--God, I hate everything about school." He smiled weakly. "Except maybe theatre, though who knows how that's going to go this year, anyway."

"Hey." Marius stretched out a hand for a moment, as though he was going to touch Courfeyrac's arm, but thought better of it and continued painting the wall. "You're good at what you do."

"Tell that to my parents."

Marius laughed. "Don't test me. I will."

They worked in silence for a few minutes, considering their conversation. Finally, Courfeyrac spoke again.

"What's up with your parents? What's their deal?"

Marius half-smiled, looking both embarrassed and amused. "My parents are dead. I live with my grandfather, remember?"

Courfeyrac felt as though his face were on fire. He buried his face in his hands, smearing paint under his right eye. "Oh my God."

"It's fine," Marius said, shaking his head and laughing a bit. "I mean, it's not like I really knew them." He picked up his paintbrush again, kneeling to reach the lower section of the wall. "My mom died when I was...one? So I don't have any memories of her." He swallowed. "My dad went to war when I was really little, more like six or seven. He got killed in combat."

"God." Courfeyrac did his best to visualize a six-year-old Marius, a sort of shorter, rounder version of the one standing before him, learning that his father was dead. "That's awful. I'm so sorry."

Marius shrugged. "Not your fault, right?" His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I, uh, really don't remember either of them well at all. My granddad says that my mom was nice. He doesn't talk about my dad too much. I remember...I remember that he liked to read, and he would always read to me before I went to bed. And that he didn't get mad at me when I would worry about the monsters underneath my bed." He snorted, shaking his head. "Stupid."

Courfeyrac, uncertain of what to say, elected to stay as still as possible. It was like having a squirrel wander too close to you at the park--it should be ordinary, but it felt almost magical, and too rare to take any risks.

Marius kept talking, in what must have been the longest speech of his life. "The worst part is that that's the only version of me that my dad has, you know? Had. Whatever. He only knew me when I was this stupid, scared little kid, who worried about monsters under his bed and who didn't even know how to  _ read _ . He never got to see me get older or anything, and you're just sort of left wondering, like, you know,  _ Would he even like me? Am I who my dad would want me to be? _ " He shook his head again, tugging at a piece of dry skin on his lips with his teeth.

Courfeyrac held out a hand hesitantly, wondering if he should offer his touch. "Marius--"

"I think I remind him of him. I remind my granddad of my dad, I mean." Marius exhaled slowly from his nose. "Do you know that there aren't even any pictures of my dad around the house? My granddad says that it's because my dad never really liked pictures, but once, I found a picture of my mom, and there was just this  _ hole  _ in the middle of the picture. It was big and jagged, like somebody had just gone in with a pair of scissors and hacked my dad right out." He grimaced, swallowing hard. " _ Somebody _ ...God, as if it could be anyone else."

When the silence had stretched on long enough to assume that Marius wasn't going to say anything else, Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said, because what else was there to say?"

"No, it's...fine. I'm sorry. Sorry for complaining. It just, you know, sucks. Sometimes."

Courfeyrac nodded. "Really makes my complaints about failing Earth Science seem less important, huh?"

Marius snorted with unexpected laughter, ducking his head to hide his smile. 

From the tiny window in the uppermost corner of the wall, Courfeyrac could see the sky fading from deep pink to palest orange to a blue that wasn't quite black. He thought of his parents sitting at the table, discussing his grades in low voices, waiting for their only son, their theatre-loving son, the one who couldn't wear a business suit if he tried, to come home. He thought of Marius' grandfather sitting alone, not expecting the only family he had left. He thought of how the sky could fade from orange to blue and he would never quite be able to name all the colors in between. He thought of this, and he painted, and he watched Marius paint, and the fans buzzed overhead in a steady  _ sh-sh-sh. _

"Sometimes," said Courfeyrac, unable to hear even the janitors at this point, "I wish I could just disappear."

"I know what you mean," said Marius without any elaboration. 

They painted in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise this has a plot


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had begun to set over the buildings. Marius, chewing on popcorn, sitting cross-legged on Courfeyrac's bed, had his nose buried in his heavily annotated copy of Romeo and Juliet.  _ "And palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss." _ __   
  
Courfeyrac grinned, leaning in so that the tips of their noses nearly touched.  _ "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?" _   
  
Marius' face went fuchsia. He eyes dropped quickly do his script.  __ "Aye, uh, pilgrim, lips that—lips that..." Marius grinned ruefully, tossing his script at Courfeyrac. "I hate it when you do that."

Courfeyrac snorted, tossing his own script at Marius. "Really? I couldn't tell."

"Better not do that on opening night."   
  
"Well, Cosette's not a loser like you. She can handle a little romance."   
  
Marius muttered something about being able to handle romance.    
  
Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "Want to tell me something about your adventures in romance?"   
  
Marius' jaw dropped open, though he was beginning to laugh in that embarrassed way of his. "You don't know everything about me!"   
  
"I know that I've never seen you look more flustered than when we act out this scene."   
  
Marius glanced around for something else to throw, and finding nothing, settled for swatting Courfeyrac on the back of the head. "Maybe I just don't like you trying to kiss me."   
  
Courfeyrac snorted. "Please. If I had to kiss anyone in the cast, you'd be my last choice."   
  
"Last? I'm offended. Plus, I'm not even in the cast."   
  
"Well, close to last." Courfeyrac let himself fall back onto his bed, and after a few moments, Marius joined him. The two lay in silence: Marius still blushing and giggling to himself, Courfeyrac grinning.    
  
After a few moments, Courfeyrac spoke. "You know, you're a lot funnier than you look, Pontmercy."   
  
"You're saying I don't look funny?"   
  
"Shut up. Look, I'm just saying that whenever we're around, like Enjolras or the rest of the crew, you don't say anything. Why are you always so quiet? Everything that comes out of your mouth is a gift."   
  
"What? No." Courfeyrac couldn't see Marius's face, but he knew he was blushing. "I just, you know...everyone else is so smart and talented and hilarious, and I'm...not. I mean, I don't have things to say, you know?"   
  
"You have things to say. Don't be dumb." Courfeyrac sat up and stared down at Marius. "Look me in the eye, Pontmercy."   
  
Marius half-laughed and turned away. "Shut up."   
  
"No! Come on, you've got things to say. Just because everyone else is terrifying and talks all the time doesn't mean you're not less important."   
  
Marius let out another choked laugh. "Whatever. I-I mean, look, thanks. I mean, you're nice, it's just...I-I'm not—well, I mean, y-you know, whatever, right?" He pushed himself up and grabbed the script. "Come on. Want to run the scene again?"   
  
Courfeyrac opened his mouth, considering pursuing the subject, but decided to let it drop. "Sure. What time do you need to get home?"   
  
The color drained from Marius' face. "Shit. What time is it?"   
  
Courfeyrac glanced at his watch. "Five-thirty. Why?"   
  
"Shit.  _ Shit." _ Running a hand through his curly black hair, Marius leapt off the bed. "Look, I have to go, okay? I'm supposed to cook dinner tonight. My granddad likes to eat early. I, uh—look, um, I'm sorry I can't help you practice longer, but, you know..."   
  
Courfeyrac felt rather as though his alarm had woken him up thirty minutes early. "What? Hey, no, it's okay. No problem." He watched his friend pace nervously, muscles taut, mind forming the question:  _ Are you okay? _   
  
As if sensing the question, Marius smiled sheepishly. "It's fine. I'll see you tomorrow?"   
  
"Sure. Yeah. Thanks for running lines with me. Pilgrim."   
  
Marius smiled at the weak joke. "See you."   
  
Courfeyrac watched Marius stumble out of the room, head nearly colliding with the top of the doorframe. Outside, he heard a bike lock click, then the steady tread of tires on the cobblestones. 

* * *

 

Cosette smirked at Courfeyrac. "You kiss by the book."   
  
"Ooh!" hollered Joly, pumping his fist. "Get 'im!"   
  
"Completely inappropriate, Mercutio," said Enjolras, shaking his head while the cast dissolved into laughter. "Still, nice job, Juliet."    
  
Cosette, looking rather pleased with herself, accepted the high-five from Joly.   
  
Enjolras glanced at his watch. "Probably a good place to stop. Nice work today, everyone. Stage crew? You okay with staying behind for a few minutes?"   
  
The cast scattered, chattering amongst themselves. Courfeyrac ducked past Bossuet, who was making some terrible pun, and found Marius backstage, deeply engaged in gluing some beads onto a mask.   
  
"Is that my mask?" Courfeyrac said, peering over his shoulder.    
  
Marius jumped, then smiled crookedly. "Mercutio's. Yours is less glittery."   
  
"Bummer." Courfeyrac gazed at the slew of masks. "Hey, these are good, Pontmercy."   
  
Marius grinned, ducking his head. "Really?"   
  
"Hey, don't go taking credit for my masks. A good half of those are mine." Éponine appeared from behind Courfeyrac, face smeared with paint and glue, but otherwise looking very pleased with herself. "Stage crew's off getting shit done while you guys screw around onstage."   


Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. "You're saying we don't--"

"Hey. Hey. Stage crew." Enjolras appeared from the stage, looking slightly out of breath. "Can we talk for a few seconds?"

Courfeyrac glared at Éponine, hand over his heart. "What, you mean about how Éponine has been--"

He stopped mid-sentence, catching a glimpse of Enjolras' face. He looked pale, stiff, grim. "Wait, what's going on?"

Enjolras shook his head. His arms were stiff as he handed Courfeyrac his phone. "Just got this text."

Courfeyrac skimmed it, feeling the rest of the crew peer over his shoulders. The text was from the principal--of course Enjolras would have the principal in his contacts, he thought to himself--and was brief. Said something about how the budget was smaller than they had initially planned. Something else about how it was nearly cut in half. They hadn't even begun working to sell tickets yet. Disappointing, overall. Disappointing.

The slight stupor of stage crew was broken by a crash from offstage, then some hysterical laughter. Enjolras twisted around, venom in his eyes. "What's going on?"

Joly's face appeared from around the curtain, looking slightly guilty. "Sorry. There's this piece of uneven flooring near the edge of the stage, and Bossuet was kind of fucking around, and he tripped on it. Sorry."

Enjolras ran a hand through his tangled hair roughly, inhaling sharply through his teeth. "Stage crew? Can we fix that piece of uneven flooring?"

Éponine stared at the floor, shifting her shoes on the black wood. "I dunno. I mean, since we now have enough money to buy a pack of gum, maybe we should save that for something more important?"

Enjolras gritted his teeth. "This is not my fault."

"I didn't say it was."

Grantaire now, showing up a few minutes late, only reading the text now. "You kind of did, though."

Enjolras closed his eyes so tightly the lids nearly disappeared. "Grantaire, I do not need your help in this argument--"

More shuffling from offstage, now combined with various pained sounds from Bossuet. Joly's head appeared from around the curtain again, looking more guilty than the first time. "He sprained his ankle, we think. Sorry."

There was a long silence that spread over the room, more quiet than any group of Musain performers had ever been. Courfeyrac didn't know how long it lasted, or why it lasted so long, or even why it was so unbearable--and yet he could feel something black and heavy resting in the bottom of his stomach, something that made it hard to swallow or speak or even more.

"Fucking trainwreck," muttered Marius, and there was something broken in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo i'm uploading two chapters at once because they didn't feel right in one chapter together but also i didn't want to leave u this shitty excuse for a chapter and also i'm excited about what happens in the next chapter and i didn't want to wait


	5. Chapter 5

"You are, without a doubt, the worst artist on the planet."

Enjolras scowled at Grantaire, flicking paint at him. "Shut up."

"How'd you even get to be stage manager, anyway? All you're doing is bossing us lowly workers around and--"

Courfeyrac grinned as Enjolras attempted to wrestle Grantaire to the ground. Grantaire quickly pinned Enjolras' arms behind his back.

"You're so _tiny,"_ marveled Grantaire.

"Shut up." Enjolras squirmed out of Grantaire's grasp. He raised his eyebrows and grabbed Grantaire's hand, pressing their hands together. "Your hands are so _big."_

Courfeyrac traded a glance with Marius, who looked equal parts amused and alarmed. "Want to stop flirting and actually help us paint?"

Grantaire feigned outrage. "We're not--"

Enjolras punched Courfeyrac in the shoulder. "Just for that comment, you have to stay behind and work on posters. And Grantaire has to buy me a slushie for the slander that's been going on." He stood and brushed the sawdust off his skinny jeans. "Pontmercy? Care to come?"

Marius gave a quick glance at Courfeyrac. "Uh, I can stay behind to work on posters, too. Thanks, though."

Now it was Enjolras and Grantaire trading a look. Courfeyrac folded his arms across the chest. "What?"

Enjolras raised his eyebrows at Courfeyrac. "Nothing. Courf, help me put away the paints."

Glancing over at Marius, who only looked somewhat petrified at the thought of being alone with Grantaire, Courfeyrac nodded and grabbed two paint cans. They swung loosely at his sides as they walked to the supply closet.

 _"What?"_ repeated Courfeyrac as soon as they were out of earshot.

"Nothing, nothing." There was only a trace of a smirk on Enjolras' face. "Marius seemed pretty excited to make those posters, didn't he?"

"What? Oh my _God."_ Blood rushed to Courfeyrac's face as he realized what Enjolras was saying. "Don't be dumb."

"It's not _dumb._ I'm just saying that you two seem to, you know…"

"What? No! God, I don't know what you're talking about. Look, you're one to talk. Two weeks ago, you couldn't stand to be in the same room as Grantaire, and now you're--you're talking about how big his hands are and--"

"Courfeyrac?"

Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac jumped. Marius stood a few feet away, holding a toolbox. "Where's this go?"

"Oh. Uh, it can go on this shelf." Courfeyrac pointed vaguely somewhere in the closet, ears burning. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard?

Enjolras, also looking slightly chastened, ducked past Marius towards Grantaire. "All right, uh, you guys okay with making the posters? Know where the markers are and stuff? We can hang them up Monday."

"Yeah." Courfeyrac watched Enjolras and Grantaire retreat, Enjolras nudging the taller boy with his shoulder, both of them laughing and gesturing widely as they spoke. Courfeyrac felt something twinge in the pit of his stomach that he didn't completely recognize.

Marius cleared his throat, pushing his hair back. "I got some of the poster stuff while you guys are talking. There are, like, some letters that are pre-cut out?"

Courfeyrac nodded, jerking back into reality. "Nice. Yeah, okay."

The sun turned the stage golden as Marius and Courfeyrac worked. There was something meditative about it, Courfeyrac thought to himself, coloring in the C of COME TO ROMEO AND JULIET! He was always proud of his bubble letters.

Courfeyrac paused in his coloring for a moment to watch Marius work. His bubble letters stood no chance next to Courfeyrac's--he had opted to use the pre-cut letters--but there was something slower, deeper, more mindful to the way he worked. His teeth tugged on his lower lip, brow furrowed, as he ran the gluestick over the back of the A. He had taken off his sweatshirt in the late afternoon sunlight and wore only a black T-shirt. The sun cast a shadow over his face, over his thin, tanned arms, and Courfeyrac felt a pang course through his body.

"Could I have the D?"

Courfeyrac felt a fresh pang course through his body, something more violent. "What?"

"The...the D." Marius gestured in the direction of the pile of letters. "I, uh, I can get it too, though, if you want."

"Oh. Uh. No, here..."

The pair worked in silence for a few more minutes. Marius spoke again.

"I didn't know that Enjolras was gay."

Courfeyrac's bones felt weary from the constant barrage of lightning bolts rocketing through his body. "Yeah? So?"

"So...nothing, I guess." Marius paused in his methodical letter-gluing, gazing up into the rafters. "So you're okay with that?"

"'Course I am. He's my best friend, Marius. Christ, what is this, 1950?"

"What? Look, I'm fine with it, too! I just wanted to...I don't know. Talk about it, or something."

"Well, you shouldn't need to talk about it. It's fine. Jesus Christ, Marius, you're working stage crew. You should be ready to meet actual gay people. Or is that something you're not used to?"

The silence dragged on. Courfeyrac closely watched Marius' expression. Marius continued to stare up at the darkened lights, expression the same as it had ever been, if his cheeks were a little pinker. It was almost a minute before he spoke again, and when he did so, his voice shook slightly.

"You don't need to do that every time I do something stupid, you know. I know I'm dumb. Everyone reminds me of it every fucking minute. You don't need to do shit like that."

Courfeyrac felt something in his chest tighten. "Marius, I--"

"Whatever. Whatever, you know? It's fine." Marius forced a laugh.

There was another silence. Courfeyrac pretended he couldn't see Marius' hands shaking.

"Sorry," Marius said after a few minutes, voice more subdued. "I don't know. It's just been a bad few weeks, you know?"

Courfeyrac nodded, although he didn't. "Look, you shouldn't be the one apologizing. I'm sorry. That was, like, a total dick move, all right? On my part, I mean. God." He shook his head. "I just don't really like talking about that stuff."

"Oh. Well, that's fine."

"No, no, look, it's just--" Courfeyrac shook his head. "I'm bi, and, you know, it's always awkward talking about it with straight people. They're always going to make things weirder than they need to be, and I trust you and everything, but...yeah."

"Oh. Yeah, no, that makes sense."

Somewhere in the school, somebody shrieked with laughter. The ceiling fans overhead buzzed knowingly.

"I'm straight," said Marius.

Courfeyrac smirked, tossing a marker at Marius' head. "I know, Marius. You're about as straight as it gets. That's why I didn't want to make things awkward."

Marius stiffened as the marker hit his head, laughing weakly. "Yeah."

After a lengthy silence, Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "Hey, I really need to get home--you mind locking up the place for the night?" He tossed Marius the keys.

"Sure. I can finish coloring in your poster, too, if you want."

Courfeyrac hesitated. Enjolras had, after all, specifically given him the job of the posters because of his supreme coloring skills. "If you don't mind, sure."

"Awesome. Uh, text me when you get home safe, okay?"

"You too, buddy."

Courfeyrac couldn't fall asleep until long past midnight that night. His phone didn't buzz once.

* * *

 

The words were beginning to come easier now, sliding off of Courfeyrac's tongue as though they were his own. "Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!/Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on/The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!/Here's to my love!"

He took a sip from Enjolras' water bottle before collapsing on the cold, tape-streaked stage. "O true apothecary!/Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die."

There was silence, then polite applause from the edges of the stage. Enjolras stepped out of the wings, taking back his water bottle. "Don't we have an actual flask? Like, a prop?"

"Yeah, but I'm thirsty." Courfeyrac heaved himself up from the floor, knees cracking. "Was it okay?"

"Yes. Thank God." Enjolras pulled his tangled curls into a ponytail, glancing about the stage before lowering his voice and leaning into Courfeyrac. "This might not be a complete shitshow."

Courfeyrac grinned, reaching for Enjolras' water bottle again--the ten-minute monologue did have a way of drying his mouth. "That's the spirit."

"Damn right." Enjolras smiled crookedly at him before stepping away. "Friar Laurence! Balthasar! Get over here!"

Courfeyrac lay flat on the ground again, staring at the ceiling high above him. The ceiling fans whooshed in a steady harmony, reminding him of Marius. "Hey, you seen Pontmercy at all today?" he asked the ceiling.

Cosette responded from the edge of the stage, her legs dangling. "I think he's sick again."

Courfeyrac nodded, only really half-listening. There was something hypnotizing about the height of the rafters from his place on the floor, the dim lights hazy in his half-crossed eyes, the murmur of the stage crew, Combeferre's shadowy figure in the lights booth.

"O comfortable friar! where is my lord?" began Cosette, nearly stepping on Courfeyrac's fingers, and Courfeyrac lost himself in the play again.

* * *

 

When night was just beginning to spill into morning, when Courfeyrac could hear his parents' steady breathing from down the hall, when Courfeyrac was beginning to drift into sleep, he heard three sharp knocks at the door, then three more. He padded on bare feet towards the door, nearly hitting his head on the doorframe in his groggy haze. He undid four locks with sleep-weak hands, eyes only halfway open. "Yeah?"

Marius. Marius, standing in Courfeyrac's doorway, looking half-drowned in the harsh March rain.

"What are you doing?" Courfeyrac's voice barely rose above a whisper.

Marius forced a smile, but there was no humor in his expression. "I have come to sleep with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *squints* is that a plot i spy

**Author's Note:**

> *sweating* what is this 2013 haha what kind of nerd is writing a courfius theatre au this is disgusting
> 
> (takes place in the american school system instead of paris, because i have absolutely no idea how french school systems work. sorry i know that american school systems don't make any sense but i really didn't want to get anything about france wrong!)
> 
> (the beginning is slow-moving and kind of silly but i promise things will get better soon! comments are appreciated, and thanks for reading!!)


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